Max
by 1234567890red
Summary: Highschool sucks. The teachers. The homework. The people. Mostly the people.out of four-hundred people only six names are known. Nudge, Gazzy, Iggy, Angel, Dylan, and Fang. Mostly Fang. They are the populars in our school. So, maybe it is not the people, but the thing known as popularity that I hate. I want to smash it like a bug. Somehow I will outsmart popularity. Somehow.
1. Chapter 1

Blue. Yellow. That's all I see. The walls are brick. They are brick, and yet somehow they hold the color of the sky. Did you know the sky is shy? Well it is, and it is hiding behind our hands. The yellow hands that represent the students in our school. Last year on the last day of school we redesigned our school. It went from black, the kind of black that is so deep in color you get lost in it, to blue. Light blue that makes you want to reach out for it and take a piece of the sky to put in your pocket. And this is exactly what people did. Except when they grabbed for the sky they left hand prints. Yellow hand prints that glared back at us, warning us to stay away.

Anyways that's the story that my art teacher tells us. Although I'm pretty sure he is the story himself. He has red hair that is all knotted up, and begs to be cut at least at the shoulder. His eyes are bright. Bright blue like our school's wall. Except his eyes hold a dash of purple that god must have squeezed out of his lilacs. And maybe the lilacs stared to drip and wither with age because somehow some purple managed to get under his eyes. Deep bags hang there. And then there is a light. A glowing white one that shines off his skin. He is defiantly the whitest man I have ever seen. He is even white for a ginger, and that's saying something. His nose is long and pointy. His lips are thin and cracked. And I think, I think he contains the sun because what he claims are freckles look like little specks of the sun's warmth. The same warmth that his tiny smile contains. The same warmth that reflects off his personality.

Whenever I see him I just think, why can't everyone be like Mr. Robinson? Why can't everyone be theirself? Why can't everyone's goal be to become a better person?

I sigh. Chealsea, being my best friend and having ears of a hawk, turns towards me and offers me a smile.

"Are you thinking about that wall again? Every single time we walk by it you sigh. I know you've explained to me a million times about your crush on Mr. Robinson"- eww?  
and how you want everyone to be like him. But come on, life would be too deep if there was a million of him and too...red. Well I mean if everyone looked like him. Cus of his hair." Says Chealsea.

"Well first of all I am not crushing on him. He's like 50! And second of all I don't want everyone to be just like him, I just want everyone to be their complete and utter selves. Yah know?" I say to her while we head to the cafeteria.

"Yeah I guess..." She says in a voice that says, "No your wrong, but I'm going to agree with you just so you shut up."

Me and Chealsea are complete opposites. And when I say complete , I mean complete. While she likes to party and is obsessed with guys, I prefer hanging out or doing anything that _doesn't_ involve guys. She loves attention, I absolutely hate it. Another thing we totally disagree on? Fang.

I'll admit he is hot. Hot like 100 degrees hot in the summer. Hot like the sun, hot like the inside of an exploding volcano. He has brown hair, but it might as well be black because it looks just like it. And oh my goodness he is tan. Even when it is winter and the sun seems to sleep every day, he is still tan. Not a gross orange color that girls like to wear, but a smooth olive color that looks so natural it's almost unbelievable. And his eyes, his eyes are stunning. They are brown, deep, deep brown like the melted chocolate in an advertised cookie. And maybe there is more to his eyes. Maybe there are gold specks thrown in there or green, but his eyelashes are so long that I cannot tell. His nose is of corse perfect, along with his body, but my favorite feature of his? His jawline. That's the part that absolutely kills me. How can such a jerk have such a perfect jawline? I want to draw it over and over again, but I don't think I could ever capture it's perfect shape. It just looks so strong and so stunningly perfect.

So, based on features I can totally understand why every girl likes him. But based on personality? I have no clue. He is a complete and utter disappointment when it comes to his personality. I wish I could put him in a hideous body with a hideous face and then see how many girls liked him.

I bet you know what I think of Fang. And if you don't, well, lets just say I'm not very fond of him. Chealsea? Now she's a whole different story. She's one of the many girls who could swim in his eyes and forget what he is actually saying. In other words, she is one of the many girls who would date him in a heart beat.

Fang has about twenty girls on his arm each day even though he has a new girlfriend about every week. You would think his girlfriends would break up with him for this. Do they? Nope. He ends it every single time. In fact, rumor has it that he just broke up with his last girlfriend, Bridget, yesterday. Which is probably not just a rumor, considering the fact that she is bawling her eyes out right now.

Confusion. This is what I am feeling. It is running through my body, pulsing through my brain to find an answer. Fang, the most popular guy in our school, is smiling at us. Not only is he smiling at us, but he is walking towards us. Us being me and Chealsea, who are not even remotely popular. I look behind us to see if one of his friends is behind us. Nope, unless one of his friends consists of a blank wall. So, I look back at Fang and stare at him. Am I dreaming?

Nope. That's the real Fang. I can tell by his jaw.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes when I get really nervous I stare at my shoes. I stare at them like they are the most important black converse's in the world. Like the star on it is actually glowing as if it were real. Other times, I can feel my heartbeat trying to escape my chest and run away. In this scenario, the one where Fang is approaching me and Chealsea, I find both of these things happening to me. And I hate it. I absolutely, positively, mind-shatteringly,hate it. I cannot stand that this- that this disgrace to humanity (also known as Fang) can make me feel this way. But I am determined. I am a determined strong person who will not let some excuse for a man frighten me. So, I take one last breath and look up.

And there he is. Right in front of me. Starring at me. Instantly my nerves dissolve. Instead, they are replaced with annoyance. Who does he think he is? He must really think highly of himself if he has the nerves to just come up here and stare at us...well me.

If he were a blank journal page, the only thing it would read would be, me. Me as in him, if he were referring to himself. It would say, me me me me all I care about is me. And if I were to draw his personality I would draw a monster. A pathetic monster that hid behind his millions of mirrors and self love.

And I can tell that he thinks I am nothing but a heart that he can break. So, to prove him wrong I stare right back at him. I stare into his eyes and I realize that his eyes are not just brown, but gold, auburn, and even a hint of green. Sometimes luck is handed out to the wrong people. Fang is one of those people. He is lucky, oh so lucky, that his gruesome personality is hidden behind his flawless features.

And I laugh. I actually laugh out loud because sometimes life is just too unfair. And I throw my head back like a crazy person. Heck, I am a crazy person. I'm laughing at my own joke that I told to myself in my head. Fang probably thinks I'm a wako. When I think of this my laughing starts to fade out and I slowly look back at him.

I can feel two pairs of eyes. They belong to Chealsea and Fang. Wait no. It's not just them, but the whole school. Boy, do I regret that laugh.

"Ok..." Says a deep voice that belongs to the one and only Fang. Great. He sounds creeped out...not that I care or anything.

"And you are here because..." I say, because I am seriously curious and plus I have nothing else to say.

He gives me a smile. A half smile that is so cute that I have to force myself to look away. "I'll tell you once you tell me why you were laughing." Crap. What am I going to say? That I was thinking how unfair it was that some people, like him, had monstrous personalities, yet beautiful features? That would be both mean and humiliating on my part. So I throw the first thing that comes to my mind.

"Nothing really, just when you were walking over here you made a weird face." Lie. I don't think he could make an ugly face even if he tried. What he doesn't know wont kill him. But luckily it does make him flush under his olive toned skin. Yes! I ripped a piece of his ego out!

"Oh, ok. Well listen, I was just coming over here to welcome you to the neighborhood. My mom told me you guys were moving in right next to us." He says this while rubbing his right shoulder.

Red. Red, red, red. I've never really liked the color, so imagine how I must feel now that it is the only thing I can see. I am seeing red because I am so mad. So, so, so, so, so very mad. My mom never told me we were moving! Why wouldn't she tell me?! The rational part tells me that she didn't want to tell me because she knew my reaction: anger. Sheer anger that I want to rip out and slam into her secretive face.

I hear myself saying, "Oh, thanks. Guess I'll see you then."

I hear my feet against the school grounds.

I feel my breath coming out unevenly. I'm either crying or running. I hope it's the second option because I cannot afford to cry. I will lose my tough reputation. I haven't cried since my dad died. Now we are going to give up the only thing he left us: the house that he lived and breathed in.

His memories.


	3. Chapter 3

I want everything to be perfect again. I want my dad to be alive. I want my mom to be happy. I want to be happy. I want to have a million moments where I accidentally find myself smiling. Everything feels too forced. But it will never be perfect again, in fact it will probably only get worse.

My house is painted blue. Light blue, a color that makes me want to go swimming and forget everything. Not only did my dad leave fond memories in that house encapsulated in blue, but he left a peaceful aura. Dancing, lovely, lovey dancing. Whenever I go home I have a strange urge to dance. Maybe it's because whenever I used to get home my dad would have his music blasting. Loud, ear shatteringly loud music that somehow made me feel calm and serene. They were always catchy songs that made me and my mom unconsciously sway to the rythem, and be as happy as a ballon rising into the cotton candy sky. It would smell like cookies, chocolate chip, and we would have a party of three. It would last until the stars told us to stop, and the moon cautioned us to hush.

I've always loved the display of flowers that my mom did in front of our house, it just made the place really shine. It had the look that artists aimed for, something that captivated the eyes of those who looked. It was enchanting and bright all at once. Sometimes I would forget that it wasn't actually a painting, but real. I would only remember once I captured the proof. The proof of the flowers, the promise they gave of. The promise of a new day, a better one. This promise came from the flush of their scents. No perfume or man-made flavor could capture their lovely aroma. I was always selfishly glad for this. I wanted the sweet fragrance all for myself.

I can't smell anything today, and they give off a grey and dreary vibe. Today they seem to warn me. They say,"Stay away! Max, stay away!" I ignore them, and walk inside my beloved house anyway. There's no music, no surprise there, that left along with my dad. The odd thing is that I don't feel like dancing. And it's not because I'm mad, I've been mad plenty of times before, but never have I felt this. What is this? It is a feeling nothingness. Of sorrow, of helplessness of washed away hope. It is a feeling of dread. I want to throw up just like the one time where I ate too many cookies. But this time there are no cookies stuck in my throat, instead there is something sickeningly sweet. It's artificial and if it were visible it would be a bright orange. One that just parted from a clown's monstrous makeup.

It's a peculiar and rather unwelcome smell. I don't know where it is coming from, so I follow it's stench. Surprisingly it's source is not the trash can, but a man. He looks hollow, like someone sucked the life right out of him. Maybe he doesn't want anyone to know that he is no longer filled with life because he is wearing hideously bright clothes. Surely that's where he wants everyone's attention to go to. Smart man. But not fooling me, his eyes stick out like a sore thumb. There's only one word for them; lifeless. They've obviously seen a lot of drugs.

Wait-what is this raunchy guy doing in my house? Why am I not screaming? Maybe it has to do with the fact that he is a twig that I could easily snap like a pencil if he chose to even flick me, but still.

"Umm, not to be rude or anything, but what the heck are doing in my house?" I say in a disgusted voice. I can't help it, his weird odor is strangling me.

"Oh, er, well, eh... your mom didn't tell you?" I swear he sounds like he has knives stuck in his throat. I can barely understand him.

"Tell me what?" This better be good. I'm using up my clean oxygen supply.

"Er, well, we are sort of... dating. And well, we are getting really close and you and your mom are ummm.. moving into my house." He says the last part really fast, as if he is scared of me. He should be because i think i am goin to go insane from a combination of confusion nd anger. Is this some sort of sick joke? We are moving into his house? My mom actually likes this guy? Where did her standeres go?

"Listen. You are not dating my mom, not anymore. And we are not moving, so why don't you just walk away to your little house and forget this ever happened. Okay?" Just as i say this my mom walks in with a stern look on her face. I have to talk some sense in to her.

"Mom, you can't be serious. I have to admit you had me scared at first with this whole moving thing, but don't worry, I'm over it now that I see what a joke this whole thing is. I mean come on, you can't possibly sell our house for this guy. Right?" I'm seriously convinced this is a joke. What else could it possibly be?

"Max! This is not a joke! I bring my boyfriend over for you to meet, and all you do is criticize him!" Her voice seems strained and what is that...fake? I don't understand.

"Max." She says in a softer voice. " We can't afford this house anymore. I lost my job a few weeks ago. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry. Russel is kind enough to let us stay at his place." Ahhh and the truth comes out. Doesn't he-sorry Russel- realize he is being used?

And I guess the angry red is still kind of there, it's just faded into a light pink. I know why my mom did what she did, she did it because she loves me. And she knows me too well. Sometimes when people have cancer they are told that they are going to die soon. And then what do they do? They either morn, do something they have always wanted to do, become really religious, or go on a medicine that will most likely not work. What would I do? Probably the only thing I could do, nothing. I would feel nothing, I would be nothing. I would be too depressed to enjoy what was left of my life. I would rather not know at all. Same goes for this situation. If I had known that we were going to move a few weeks ago I wouldn't be able to enjoy my last moments with this house.

Sure, I'm angry. Angry that my mom picked this low life out of all the men in the world. Angry that we have to sell our house. Angry that we can't just move in with a family member, or into a hotel. But my mom has no choice, and I know that if we had enough money to stay in a hotel my mom would've chosen that. She must be really desperate.

And since I still hate this orange smelling druggie, I simply say nothing and walk away because I know that if I even open my mouth oh so slightly I will scream and cry. So I simply walk up the stairs and into my room. I pull out my suitcase and pack. Even though my mom never told me we were leaving soon I still know. I know, and sadly there is nothing I can do about it.


	4. Chapter 4

I wish I could pack away sorrow like I pack away clothes. It would be so easy. But, as almost everyone on earth knows, life is not easy. Although in a way it's kind of a good thing. I mean if life were super easy, then what would challenge us? Wouldn't we get bored? I know I would. I like challenges, they give me something to beat, something to work on, improve on.

Then again, I think I would rather be bored and skip the challenge than have to deal with Fang. He's just such a... player. And, lucky for me, I get to live right next to him. Right next to his horny little butt. I wonder if he is going to try to flirt with me? I mean I know I'm not the prettiest, or the funniest, or the nicest, but he goes for everyone. And I mean everyone. Actually, more like they go for him. 'Fang has such pretty eyes, I could just stare into them all day!' 'OMG look at his muscles!' 'Why does he have to be so hot?!' Ect., Ect. I hear it all day long. In the locker room, in the halls, in the bathroom, you name it, and you'll hear the name Fang at least once. Let me tell you, it gets pretty darn annoying.

I practically know the guy through everyone's gossip. How many times has he had sex? Seven times. Where does he work? The movie theatre. What's his favorite food? Cheese pizza. What does he look for in a girl? Hottness, dumbness, and gingerness. Okay, so the last part I came up with, but honestly? It's 100% true. Every single girl he dates has no mind of her own, is drop dead gorgeous, and has red hair. Anyways, my point is, I know everything about him and yet I've only talked to him once! One stinking time! That's ridiculous!

"Hey, can I come in?" Says a familiar voice followed by a knock, interrupting my thoughts. We made the knock up in second grade. It kind of sounds like a disoriented song. But I guess we were disoriented as kids. Confused about the world, about people, about everything. And with confusion comes innocence. That's what I love about little kids, they are completely pure. So maybe that's why I love our secret knock, it reminds me of the days when I was innocent and cheerful. Sometimes I wish I could go pack to a time where I only worried if my coloring was good in my coloring book, or if my socks matched my outfit. Of corse back then I just wanted to be old. Now that I've actually experienced what it is like to "grow up" I realize how much it sucks. Funny how that works, isn't it?

And there's Chealsea. It's weird because every time she comes over she'll ask if she can come in, and then not even wait for an answer. Not that I mind. Things like that don't bother me, why would they? You know what does bother me though? The way Chealsea is acting right now. I don't know what I expected, a little bit of sympathy maybe? You know, because I have to leave the place I love most? But, no. There's no sympathy. She's all smiles. In fact, if I measured her grin in length, I think it would be a mile long.

"You lucky duck! Your mom gave me all the details, and I know your not the happiest right now, but really think about the situation your in. Sure, you have to move in with , and you have to leave this house, but you get to move in next to Fang! How cool is that?!" I kind of just stare at her for a moment. In total disbelieve. Did she just say... what I think she said? Did she just say I was...lucky?

"Do you hear yourself right now? I'm moving away from the same house that my dad used to live in. See these walls? He painted them. You know my memories I always tell you about? They happened here. With him. So let me get this straight, your saying that I, Max Ride, am lucky to move into a house that is right next to Fang Conti. Might I add that he uses girls everyday, just because he can? And you're what? Happy for me?" I'm so angry that when I'm talking spit flies out of my mouth. Normally I would be embarrassed, but right now I'm too mad to care.

My wild temper dies down when I see Chealsea's face. It looks like she's on the verge of tears. I feel bad. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just, well, I love this house, but it's not your fault that we're moving. It's nobody's. I know you were just trying to make me feel better." I hate apologizing, but Chealsea deserves an apology. Sometimes I overreact way too much. But my apology is too late. I can tell that Chealsea is sucking back tears, I've never yelled at her before, not like this.

When she speaks I expect her voice to be trembling, but instead she sounds strong. Strong and _triumphant_. "It's fine. And yeah, I guess this all does kind of suck, but I bet it will get better. And guess what? Once you left I talked to Fang."

Great. What did the triumph in her voice indicate? What does she consider a victory? Arranging a "play date" with Fang? I sure hope not. "About what?" I ask in a voice laced with worry.

"Nothing really. Just told him that if he ever even laid a finger on you I would shred him to pieces. Then bring him back to life and kill him again, you know, the normal kind of stuff people say to their friend's new neighbor." I let out a relieved breath of air. And a laugh. I can't help it, she said it with such innocence.

"What was his reaction?" I wish I could of been there, I bet he wasn't expecting her to say that.

"He just looked kind of weirded out. I guess my chances with him are over." She says this in a sad voice, so I glare at her and she quickly adds, "Kidding! I was only kidding!" And I can only hope that she was. I love hope. It brings faith, it makes people believe.

So I hope. I wish for the best, desire for my mom to get another job, dream that we can move out of Russel's house as soon as possible, and reverie that Fang pays no attention to me. And so, instead of packing away my sorrows, I pack away my longings. This way I can take them with me. To my new temporary house. And you know what?  
Everything might actually be okay.


	5. Chapter 5

We are moving today. I didn't know the exact date, I was too scared to ask, so I asked Chealsea if she could ask instead. When she told me I felt like something was exploding inside me. There was a little buzzing noise everywhere, one that I could not ignore, and it seemed to rise in a crescendo. And I am ashamed to admit that I wrapped myself in the noise and forgot everything for a while. Forgot that my dad was dead, that my mom was dating a druggie, and that we were moving from my favorite place in the world. But you know what? Apparently there is this little thing in my head called a conscience. It told me I was being a wimp, that I was hiding from my own problems. And it was right. So, instead of remaining lost in the noise, I battled it. And I won.

Now that the noise is gone I can really focus. I'm in my room, alone. There is a speck of a memory telling me that I already said goodbye to Chealsea right when the noise began to suffocate me. In a way I'm glad; I can say bye to my house in peace.

I walk around my house, and paint an image of each and every room in my mind. I don't want to forget anything. Soon enough there is only one room left, my Dad's old office. We never touched a thing in there since he's passed away. Its still in the condition he left it in, perfect. I don't visit often, it makes me too sad, but I know I have to visit it today. I have to say goodbye.

I twist the knob, and then pull it open. I was suspecting my mom to be in here, since she's no where else in the house, but she's not. She's probably outside. And once again I'm glad to be alone.

His office is small. It's yellow, but not the harsh yellow that could be confused for a mustard stain. Instead, it looks white with only a kiss of yellow. The room consists of a small wooden desk, and a faded purple bookshelf. The corky bookshelf is bombarded with various books. Of course they all have to do with art because he was an artist. As an artist, you would think his office would be occupied with paintings of all sorts, and messy with art supplies. But he was a very precise man, and very particular when it came to neatness. Which is why his books are all in alphabetical order, and look crisp, almost as if they have never been opened.

And his desk too. Exactly in order. Which is why I feel guilty about going through it as I am now. I just want to find something new. Something that I can grasp onto, and pretend, if only for a moment, that he is still with us. Maybe a painting, or a note in his unique handwriting. But there is nothing. And I want to cry. But I don't. Instead I get up quickly, and accidentally knock over his bin full of pencils. He would go insane if he saw the mess I just created. But he is dead so it doesn't matter. Still, my hand shoots forward. It is not to clean the mess, but to pull up what seems to be a secret compartment. Once my hand makes contact I pull as hard as I can on the handle. It won't budge. Don't get me wrong, I am terrifyingly strong, but it just won't give.

There is a lock on it. Whatever is in this compartment must be extremely important. I have to find the key or else curiosity will eat me up, and unsatisfactory will help with the deadly dead. So I look everywhere in his office. I look under his desk, in all his drawers, through his papers, in the pencil bin, and in the book case. Plus, I look in every single book. There is nothing.

So, instead of searching his office, I search my brain. I search for any clues he might have given me, any hints. There is nothing. I want to scream, just like I used to when I was a little kid and lost something. Lost something that I had hid in a place so secretive that even I could not remember. It was a repetitive problem that made me loose multiple things.

Until one day my dad showed me a spot that I wouldn't ever forget. He said it was a spot that was in practically every home, a drawer. Any drawer he said. Not in the drawer, rather the place above it. He said that way no one could find it. They could pull it out and search the drawer, but never would they think to search above it. And I remember saying, "But then you will no where I hide my treasures!" And he just laughed, and winked. And even though I knew he would know where I hid my valuables, I still hid them there. I knew he wouldn't look simply because I trusted him more than anyone in the world. And he was my best friend.

Of course the object would have to be small to fit up there, but most of my most prized possessions were/are small. And a key is defiantly something that could fit in our hiding spot.

I rush to his desk, and pull out his drawer. I pull it out all the way, and put the whole drawer on the floor. Then I stick my hand in the open space, and reach up. Sure enough, I feel something. It is taped to the wooden surface, and I have to rip it off. When I finally pull it free I clasp it in my hand, and hope beyond hope that it is a key. Luckily it is, and I almost jump from joy. But I don't, and instead I go to unlock the compartment with shaky hands that rattle from excitement.

I put the key in the lock and twist it in a slow, suspenseful way._ This is it_, I think._ I wonder what it could be. I'll be content with anything except for disappointment_. And on that thought, I begin to pull it open, and this time it actually opens. What lays inside? A folded piece of paper. I grab it, and quickly unfold it.

What? I'm utterly confused with the image that stares back at me. It is a picture of a boy, maybe fifteen at the time, and I think it might be the most serious teenager I have ever laid my eyes on. He doesn't smile, but he doesn't frown either. His eyes are blank yet beautiful, and his jaw is on the target of perfection. I know him. It's Fang Conti.

Strangely enough, the oddest part is not the fact that my Dad has a picture of the most popular guy in our school locked up in his desk. Instead, it is the name scribbled at the bottom of the picture in my Dad's handwriting. It reads; Nick Martinez.

A summary of my thoughts: what the hell?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter six  
I don't understand. I really truly don't understand. How did my dad know Fang...or whatever his real name is? I tuck the picture in my pocket, and close the secret compartment in my Dad's desk. Then I stumble out of the room in a haze of confusion. But before I can ponder much more I run into my mom.

"Hey, you all packed?"

"Yup. When are we leaving?" I say.

"In thirty minutes. And... I know you're gonna miss this house, I'm gonna too, but Russel's house is really quite homey. I'm actually kind of excited. Arnt you? If only a little?" There it is again. The fakeness in her voice. It's practically sopping in it. She wants to go there as mush as I do.

"Oh yeah, I'm excited to move into a drugdealer's house, who wouldn't be?" I say, with my arms crossed.

"Max! He is not a drugdealer! He has nothing to do with drugs, in fact he's an artist."

"Oh? An artist. Kind of like Dad huh? Nice you could find a replacement so easily. I,on the other hand, am not replacing Dad with some guy that I barely even know just because he is an artist."

"Max, you know I didn't mean it like that! I loved your father-I still do love him, but it's been five years. Five years, and all you have been doing is moping around! We all miss him! But do you see me being a bum everyday? No!" Her words are like a slap in the face. A fresh new wound. I think she sees something in my face- something shattered, broken?- because she says in a softer voice, "Smooch, no one can replace your Dad. Remember that okay?"

And I don't know what to do, so I just nod. I'm worried that if I speak a scream of sobs will break through. So I just nod, and go upstairs. I busy myself with tasks, like counting how many stains are on my floor, so I won't hear the moving men removing everything from my Dad's office. Because if I really listen I might just go insane.

Ten minutes. Twenty. And finally the dreaded thirty. My time is up with this house. So I get up and pick up the only two things left in my room. Me and my picture of Fang...Nick, whatever. I walk downstairs. I try to pretend that I'm not leaving the house forever, that I'm just going to school. But it doesn't work. Still, I manage to leave. Today the flowers say bye to me. They tell me tomorrow will be a better day. Yeah right.

I'm in the car. My mom's driving, and I see tears down her face. I pretend not to notice. I roll my window down, and pretend that I'm flying. What would it be like to fly? To just soar in the wind with the birds and the sun? I think it would feel free. Sometimes I wish I could have wings, so I could just fly away when things got too heavy on my shoulders. But that's impossible, and why wish for the impossible when the only outcome will be disappointment? I try to shut down my brain, there are too many unwelcome thoughts.

It works for a while until a big object that resembles a clay blob appears in front of me and my Mom's car. In other words, we're at Russle's "house". It is all grey. Grey shutters. Grey doors. Grey windows clouded with dust. It looks the exact opposite of homey. Was my mom confused or something?

My mom hops out of the car and says, "We're here! You like it?" I can tell my mom's trying to make an effort for me. There are still tears staining her cheeks. She's trying to sound like she adores the house, but really I can tell she hates it.

I decide to be nice and pretend with her, "It's not too bad." She smiles at me. Her smile says, I'm proud of your lying ability. Mine says, no problem.

So we share our secret smile and walk into the house of smoke and doom together.

The inside is not much better than the outside. The walls are painted an ugly orange color, and the floor is cold and white. There is not one touch of personality, except for maybe the dead plant in the corner. Not only is this house gloomy, but it's also...creepy? Yes, blood shatteringly creepy. It's weird, but I feel like someone's watching me. I have these knives poking in my back, telling me that me and my mom are not alone.

"Is Russel here?" I only ask this because I feel as if we are not alone. Sure, the moving men are out and about outside, but I don't think it's them. If it was them I would have noticed this weird sensation at my house.

"No he had to go to work. He'll be back at around six."

I'm overreacting. It's probably just my imagination. I tell myself this again and again, but the feeling will not go away. I look around everywhere, in every single place where a person could possibly be hiding, but I don't notice any hiding spots or any people.

"I'm going to go outside and help direct the moving men. Don't be afraid to look around. Your room's upstairs, the smaller one. You might not like it now, but Russel said you could decorate it however you liked. Nice of him huh?" Before I get a chance to answer, my mom's already out the door. Its a good thing too, because my response probably would have been nasty.

There's that feeling. I back up to stand against a wall so that no one can sneak behind me. I hold my breath and listen. Breathing. I can hear breathing, and no one is inside at the moment. Or not anyone that I know of. Footsteps. Light ones that could belong to an ant, but still there. Tap. Tap. Tap. It's gone. The breathing is closer. Is it coming from the kitchen? Then one more tap and a loud, _sqweeeek_, followed by a quiet, "_shut up_!" Yup. Someone's defiantly here.

I go to peek inside the kitchen when I see a movement. I can't quite make out what it is because the kitchen is so dark, but I can see an outline of some sort. Then a face. It's not the moving men. And it's definitely not my mom.

I gasp.


	7. Chapter 7

It's Fang. He's starring at me with his eyebrows raised, and he's wearing a stupid smirk that I want to smack off so bad.

"What the hell are you doing here? You scared me!" This seems to only make his smirk widen. What a jerk.

"Russel's a family friend. I've known him for years. I practically live here." When he says this I mentally cringe. He practically lives here? Great. Just great. I should've known. His stance says it all. It's a lazy stance that says, 'I'm comfortable here.' Plus he's wearing his pajamas. Which by the way, are all black, and way too tight for my liking. I want to make him wear a baggy pink outfit, and shave his head bald. Then I might not be so attracted to him. Wait-scratch that. I am not attracted to him by any means. He's an arrogant jerk.

A lying, arrogant jerk. I want to ask him. Ask him what his story is. Why my dead father had a picture of him locked up in his desk. Why it read, "Nick Martinez." But I can't. I feel like that would be betraying my dad somehow. It was obviously a secret. So, I do what all the second grade teachers used to tell me to do. I lock my lips up, and throw away the key of my dad's secrets.

"I don't care how close to Russel you are. As long as me and my mom are here you're gonna stay in your own house. Got it?" I don't think he gets it because he only comes closer to me. He's really starting to push my buttons. "Did you not just here me? I said the exact opposite of what you just did." I back up, but sadly I'm against a wall. Stupid wall.

"Oh, I heard you. But it doesn't matter because I don't listen to winey girls like you." He gets even closer and smiles.

I can't believe he just said that. I am anything but winey, if anything his past 400 girlfriends were winy.

"Well, you obviously don't know me then because I am not a complainer. Remember your girlfriend Bridget? The one who wanted to hang out with you every single day? What would she do if you were "busy"? That's right, she would cry. So if I'm winy, what does that make her? Oh I got it! A bitch just like all your other slut girlfriends." His face has no trace of hurt or bitterness, only laughter. What is with this guy?

"Has Max been...stalking me? Don't get me wrong, its not the first time someone has, but I didn't think you were the type of person to do that kind of thing. Then again, I don't blame you, with my striking good looks"-he flexes his arms-" and charming personality, it's rather hard not to. What can I say, I'm a lovable guy." And I thought he was arrogant _before_.

"I'm sorry to burst your bubble full of dumbness, I mean I really truly am. Wouldn't want any of it's idiotness to get on me. Then the disease might spread." Beat that.

"Ouch. Max, that really hurt. But you can make it up to me." As he say this, he draws a giant ex on his butt, and adds "just kiss right here." I feel my face transforming. It's shriveling up with disgust and twitching from irritation. He. Is. Disgusting. I. Cannot. Stand. Him. "Get out" I point my finger towards the door.

"Honey, I know where the door is. I've been here plenty of times, and i'll be here plenty more." He says this with a wink.

Gross, so utterly gross. Just when I think he's gone he's back. I sigh. "What could you possibly want now?"

"Just one thing then i'll go. I promise." He does this thing with his eyes. They get bigger, and he' biting his lip. His lips are light pink, just like my roses back home. They're a little bit wet, as if the rain has just sprinkled, and they look soft. Soft like a tulip petal that I want to take a picture of because it is just so lovely. A picture that I want to claim, that I want to show to a thousand people, and say, "look what I've found." I'm sure it would earn me a million dollars at the least.

And suddenly they're coming closer. I stop berating, stop moving because I simply can't. I'm stuck, frozen in place. My feet are suddenly glued in place, my hands tied in a million knots. I'm frozen in time, and stuck in a volcano. It's warming up my cheeks, my neck, my whole body. I. Can't. Move.

There's something on my cheek. A hand? Fang's hand. It feels nice, and strong. And his eyes are right there. I think the rainbow has lost all of it's colors because Fang's eyes are drowning in them. They're beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I'm in a dream. With cotton candy and humming birds. There fluttering around me, caressing my cheeks, _kissing_ my cheeks, and filling them with a glow that fills my whole body.

Suddenly, I am awakened. By two words, "I win." It's Fang's voice that speaks, and it's barely a whisper. I don't know where my Cotten candy went. Or where my little humming birds flew. But they've vanished and so have Fang's lips. I never got to touch them, never got to see if they where as soft as they looked. Wait. I almost kissed Fang. The worst part? I wanted to! And what does he mean I win? Win in seducing me?

But before I can ponder for much longer I feel a pair of lips on my cheek. Now that I'm out of my weird haze, the one where I actually wanted to kiss Fang, I have a strong urge to slap him. Hard. But before I get a chance to, I hear a woman's voice. My mom's voice. "Oh! Sorry! Didn't mean to intrude, just carry on!" she hurries to rush out, but she has a load of boxes in her hands and they all tumble down. Fang rushes to help her pick them up. Oh, so now he's acting like a gentleman. What a coincidence. Right when my mom arrives. Oh...right when my _mom_ arrives. That's why he said, 'I win.' he wanted my mom to see!

He knew my mom would think we were doing something...inappropriate. He knew! That good for nothing, lying, jerk. I'm so angry I could spit! But I don't, instead I just glare at him. Once he's done helping my mom, he grabs my mom's hand and kisses it. Actually kisses it! My mom is of course beaming, and just like every other girl, falling for his tricks. Well guess what? I won't. Never. And just when I think he's gone, for the second time might I add, he yells out, "Call me later babe!" Boy, do I hate him.

And sadly? I think he might have won. If only by a little.


End file.
